


【Amaranthine Shadows】 [English translation]

by LilaGaela



Series: Mi headcanon de Winx Club [3]
Category: Winx Club
Genre: Ancient Egyptian Literature & Mythology, Angst, Character Development, During Canon, F/F, Grimdark, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tragedy, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27870806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilaGaela/pseuds/LilaGaela
Summary: A princess stripped of her wings and disowned by her people.A chosen one terrified of her monstrous dark side.An idealist who lost her way due to pain and rage.A Machiavellian puppeteer who fights for noble ends.And a goddess who has been forgotten by the eons.All have watched their hopes fade and their worlds shatter. The blindfold has fallen and power seems to be the only answer. Power to regain what was taken from them, to find their place, to repair the society around them. But this search will condemn them to sacrifice their principles and even their mental sanity.*Amaranthine: this word emerged as an adjective of the imaginary flower and subsequently of anything possessing its undying quality.
Relationships: Bloom/Flora (Winx Club)
Series: Mi headcanon de Winx Club [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034586
Kudos: 10





	1. 【Overture】 From death they give the cold

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [【Sombras inmarcesibles】](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27805327) by [LilaGaela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilaGaela/pseuds/LilaGaela). 



> Please note this is a deeply flawed, rough translation of my fic "Sombras inmarcesibles" which was originally written in Spanish. Therefore, it's sure to have a lot of formatting mistakes, awkward phrasing, and narrative flaws. I apologize for that because even if I'm kind of fluent in English, I'm not good enough to properly write a book in said language.

_The snow-covered dead_   
_under a sad sky_   
_pass along the avenue of pain_   
_that never ends._   
  
_They go with the wandering forms_   
_among the silent auras_   
_and from dead they give the cold_   
_to the willows and the irises._   
  
_Slowly they shine white_   
_on the desolate road;_   
_and they long for the daytime parties_   
_and the loves of their lives._   
  
_When walking, the dead_   
_search for hope;_   
_they look only at the scythe,_   
_their sad shapes absorbed in throught._   
  
_In the desolate night of the mists,_   
_and in the prison, in the terror,_   
_the distant walkers pass along_   
_on the unending road._

—José María Eguren.


	2. 【Overture】 From death they give the cold

**【** _She was sinking in a confusing, cold, deep ocean; the bubbles bursting; the light fading away. The water caressed her skin, extracting life from her with a cruel slowness; so desperate, so inexorable_ **】**

* * *

I'm standing in front of Stella's room. I knock on the door, but nobody opens it for me. A pawl of darkness presses on my heart without mercy. These last few days have been like this. None of my friends let me pass. It doesn't matter how much I knock; it doesn't matter if I leave my knuckles raw, they don't open.

It has been hours, but I'm still here.

A knot in my throat suffocates me little by little, while the blackish tentacles climb up my body. At first, their touch is soft, it even tickles me. As if they wanted to remind me that I can still feel something. But with all of the girls ignoring me, that feeling fades away.

When I go down to the common dining room, they keep my place with suspicion. A little light of hope melts my heart. But when I sit down, no one notices my presence. I don't understand what's going on.

I talk to them, I whisper in their ears, I even yell at them. But it's as if my voice was blown away by the wind.

"Flora, love, tell me something," I beg her, with the hoarse voice of repeating the same phrase so much. But she doesn't listen to me.

An icy branch is stuck in my spine. I clench my fists and close my eyes tightly.

"Stella, Stella, I promise not to touch your things again," I say to the air. "I'll never joke again that you have no feelings, Tecna, but just listen to me...please."

And that's when my voice breaks and the blackness that surrounds me takes over my veins. I must look sick, but I don't dare look in a mirror. I'm afraid they too have forgotten how to reflect on me.

Hours pass, dragging a gloomy sun along with them. I stay in my place, watching as fairies and teachers leave. That bustle that sounds so full of echoes, whose laughter, that indifference. I don't know the reason, but everything around me feels opaque, distant, and cloudy. Veiled by a thin film of grey mist. It's as if the darkness inside me had won the battle. I look at my arms: even my own skin is blurred and discolored.

The night comes, accentuating the shadows and extirpating, even more, the colors of the world.

I take advantage of the fact that the room that Flora and I share is ajar to pass. The moon reigns in the sky, with its dim and melancholic light.

My girlfriend is huddled between the sheets, hugging Kiko like a stuffed animal. I caress my little rabbit, but its fur doesn't turn an inch. I don't seem to have touched him, and he doesn't wake up either, as he usually does. Flora stirs between dreams; I've always loved to see her sleep. It fills me with peace. I extend my fingers intending to entangle them in her brown hair, but I retract at the last moment. She is whispering my name, with tears in her eyes. A crushing pressure grips my chest; my voice is nothing more than a whisper. "Here I am, love, here I am. Why don't you see me? Why don't you listen to me?"

She sobs. She's not the only one.

Every time someone pronounces my name, the same thing happens. They all put their heads away, carve their eyes, or make a grimace of anguish.

I gasp, the darkness is absorbing me, scratching my interior, and hammering my head. I fall to the ground.

Who knows how long I've been unconscious. I suppose it must have been a few hours, at least, because my body is stiff. My extremities don't respond and when I get up, I can't help bending over. I feel sick, tired, I would prefer to rest. I deny with my head.

It's daylight again, and I just follow the girls like a shadow. Even irony doesn't amuse me anymore. We are in Magix, the city of infinite skyscrapers and life that never sleeps. I know that the sky must have been dyed blue, the one Layla liked so much to admire. It reminds her of the sea, the waves, and her planet. All-day long, she hasn't looked at it. Not even sideways. Soon, I stop looking at the firmament, its tone is pale and dull. I don't like it.

The city is deserted. I suppose everyone is involved in their work or their studies. I'm surprised the girls aren't in Alfea, have they escaped?

I remember when we went to Gardenia. I think it was autumn because fallen leaves adorned the streets. We all went to a nightclub, one of those badass ones that my mother forbade me to go to. We all laughed and danced. A nostalgic smile is framed on my face. They caught us at that time. And the next when we accompanied Layla to see what happened to Andros. About the sirens, and Valtor...

I kneel against the pavement. I'm not sure if my knees have been scrapped. If anyone saw me, they would think I had found something very interesting in the hard, cruel cement. If only someone could see me...

I lose track of time; I don't see the girls anymore. I guess I'll walk back to Alfea. After all, the hours are already shearing away the afternoon. I sigh.

People are so busy, in such a hurry, ignoring each other. Was it so painful not to be noticed? But those were just strangers in Magix's MAGLEV.

It's unheard of, my feet don't hurt from the walk. I shrug my shoulders, something to be glad about. I open the living room door and the girls run out to see what happens. A warm bubble expands through my body. I think a smile pulses out. They are haggard and pale, though not as much as I am. They look at the door almost with deception. The gesture of joy dies on my lips with hardly any shape. They pierce the ambiance with their eyes, piercing me, as if I were not here, standing. I don't even make a gesture to greet them, I know it's useless.

I drag my steps to my room. They have packed my things. My breath is getting very short. Hot tears flow from my eyes without permission. There's something so cold in here. My art tools, my canvases, they're all inside boxes. My clothes have suffered the same fate. If it fits, the sounds move further away. There are no smells in the air, not even the perfume of lavender that Flora usually uses floats there.

All I hear are the low notes of an imaginary piano. I can't move. The darkness has spilled like ink on the walls and the floor. It's making its way through the ceiling. I am impregnated with it, without being able to clean it.

On Flora's bedside table rests a portrait of all of us together. We were celebrating her birthday. I gave her a little box with notes about why I fell in love with her. I hope she didn't get rid of the notes as well. Or the balloons, or the drawing I made for her.

There is a candle next to the painting. There's also the best friends' necklace that Stella and I had. Domino's earring. The earth phone I got for Tecna to disarm. The favorite book that Layla and I loved to read and underline. Why do you leave them there? Why do you abandon those little pieces of my heart?

My voice tears to cry. They are forgetting me; they are getting rid of me. I ask myself, what did I do to make them no longer love me?

"Why did you leave?" Stella claims my portrait.

"I haven't left," I answer, with a voice like a feeble string.

"I wish I could let you go," Flora whispers, caressing the mark.

"You don't have to, I'm still here," I shout.

Tecna says and my heart sinks when I hear my name, "Bloom, I've never been good with my feelings, but I feel an inexplicable pain in my chest right now. I wish you could come back."

"I haven't gone anywhere!" I cry out.

"I wish I had been in your place that day, you foolish redhead," regrets Layla. "Now, both you and Musa are gone."

A train of memories hits my brain. The battle, the screams, the blood... And Musa, she... I shake my head and a whip of pain invades my mind. I can't remember what happened to her. I don't know what happened to us. The idea that she has died is eating away at me inside. My eyesight fogs.

Then Stella tries to say, "At least, at least Musa doesn't... At least she'll be able to come back, one of these days."

What if this is all my fault? What if that's why they ignore me?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry for what happened to Musa. I don't remember, but it must have been very bad. But talk to me, please, tell me you don't want to see me anymore if you want to, but tell me something," I beg them, with an asphyxiated voice.

My words echo again.

"Come on, girls, we have to give these things back to their parents," Layla urges them, with a broken face.

Flora sobs, "I don't want to, I don't want to accept that she's gone forever," and with that, she breaks into tears.

The silence is so tense that a pin could fall, and everyone would hear it.

"I haven't left," I say once more.

Stella comforts the brunette by embracing her, "It hurts us all, Flora, and I'm not asking you not to cry for her, but we have to do this. Her parents will want to keep their things."

Flora doesn't answer. Layla joins the embrace. With a little clumsiness, so does Tecna.

I approach them, my feet are as heavy as lead and the darkness is consuming me, but I struggle to move forward. I prostrate myself before my friends:

"I haven't left."

I raise my arm to caress Flora's cheek, just as the brunette used to do. I'm so anxious to feel her skin again, to have her close by. I need it. I need them all.

My fingertips can't even feel it. They go through it as if she had become disembodied. Like a ghost. As if she didn't exist. As if I didn't exist. Not really.

I look at my arms, soaked in that filthy black ink. I scrape them hard. Under the thick liquid, my skin is translucent.

Suddenly the understanding comes to me.

I open my eyes wide and retract into myself on the floor. The girls get up and pass through me as easily as in the air. I am whipped by icy currents every time that happens.

"I haven't left," I repeat. "I haven't left," it's like a litany, "I haven't left!" I don't recognize my own voice, "It can't be that I'm gone..."

I put my hands on my head and shake my hair. Am I feeling? Am I gone? Am I breathing? I wish this was a dream.

Finally, I surrender, deciding to lie down in my bed and let the hours end.

The hinges of the door squeak a little when Flora reluctantly enters what was our piece. It hurts me to see both her and the room so empty. She stands between the two pieces of furniture. The one that belonged to me has been deprived of everything: the sheets and blankets have been kept in the closet; the pillows are stacked next to the wall; I am no longer there and Kiko prefers to sleep with Flora.

My... girlfriend, are we still a couple? I look away, anyway, the love of my life is debated between lying in my bed or hers. She decides to accompany my memory, as far as I can see. She picks up one of the pillows and brings it up to her nose. It seems that my fragrance is still impregnated in that wilted object. I make the gesture of hugging her at the waist. I can't lean on it, so my arms hang down. From time to time, she moves, and my skin pierces hers.

She's looking at the ceiling; more drops roll down her brown face. I continue to pretend that I am wrapping my arms around her.

After a few minutes, tiredness can with her, and she lets herself be enveloped by sleep. I rub my nose with hers, feeling nothing but air. Have I really left? I should start believing it because Flora murmurs my name and squirms again. Will she be dreaming of that day? Instinctively, I try to wipe away her tears, but I can either. Then I do the most ridiculous thing: I found myself with her, literally. Not even this comforts me.

I open my eyes with a gasp. The fog has spread all over the place, it is no longer possible to glimpse anything else. The curious thing is that there is no trace of that strange dark pitch that has haunted me all these days. The colors have stopped looking worn, and the atmosphere is warm, surprisingly warm. There is no shivering crawling on my skin. It's nice. Will I finally be gone?

In the distance, in the mischievous mist, I see Flora. She is kneeling in front of a tombstone. A royal palace rises around her, but I can't recognize it. As well as the corpses that get infested by flies wherever I look. The sweet smell of decomposition dulls my senses. It's a slap in the face for my nose. Crows and vultures swarm to their liking.

The sky is tinged with a bloody violet. It would be almost beautiful if it weren't for the kind of landscape it's adorning at the moment.

"Bloom, Bloom," weeps Flora.

I know she won't listen to me, but I have a hunch. I stand beside her, undecided as to whether to squeeze her shoulder to indicate my presence. It doesn't matter, this is a dream by all means. Or, a nightmare. So I do. She winces. She's afraid to turn her neck.

"Love," I say, with all the affection I can muster in a situation like this.

"Bloom...is that you?"

"Yes, my love, I'm not gone," I assure her, although I know I'm blatantly lying.

She shakes her head.

"You're not real, it's just a dream, a rather lovely dream in which I can see you and hear your voice again."

I beg her, "Yes, I'm real. I know you've packed my things; I know you're devastated, but I can see you all."

She refuses to believe me. But she sits up and stands in front of me.

"Why do you always have to be so reckless?" she complains, beating me in the chest over and over again. I'll let her do it, "If you'll ever listen to me."

I embrace her. Now I do, really, being able to feel her body against mine. The warmth that she emanates against the icy cold of my skin. She notices it but says nothing.

"Let me kiss you," she murmurs in my ear, awakening old sensations, "One last time. Even if you are a dream."

That's all I need to hold her by the face and bring our foreheads closer together.

"I miss you too, my love. Don't doubt that I love you and that I will love you forever, even in death," I pledge her.

I let our lips rub against each other with a delicacy that soon becomes a necessity. I wrap my arms around her with all the strength I have left.

"Tomorrow you won't even remember," I say regretfully, "but I just wanted to say goodbye, give you a kiss, and let you see me once more."

I kiss her again, but she sobs in my mouth. Then I keep talking.

"Promise me you'll be happy," I ask her.

"I can't..."

"You're so pretty when you laugh, and I wouldn't forgive myself if you never did it again."

My own tears betray me.

Among the violet sky, a shooting star is glimpsed.

"Even if you think this is a dream, remember to smile, because that's how I want to remember you."

"Darling, please come back."

A knot suffocates my voice. The sobbing continues to shake her body.

"It's up to you, now, to continue our journey. At dawn, I will have to leave, but you must go on."

"I don't want to wake up nevermore," she implores.

"That night... that night, I couldn't properly say goodbye. Not to you, nor the girls. Give them the message, okay?"

I feel like I'm fading along with the mist.

"Don't go away, not again."

"Forgive me."

And I kiss her until something unknown begins to pull on me.

"I love you, don't forget it."

My skin is translucent, and the black tar is back.

"Goodbye, Flora."

And everything becomes dark.


	3. 【1】 Arekkis and Elendari

**【** _Burnt, incinerated, torn apart. So she lies now, with her essence spreading across the vast universe and the emptiness pierced in her eyes_ **】**

* * *

Mischievous mist outlines the edges of a hooded figure, toasted fingers caressing the plumage of a chubby black owl. With an ebony beak and ivory, empty, dead eyes. In her lap, there's a steaming cup of tea whose sweet aroma plays with the mist. Dark silk twists and makes a funny swish against dry bark, enveloping a lanky and mysterious young woman.

One hand is revealed from between the cloak's folds then takes the cup with enervating parsimony and draws it towards her lips. Flora watches her as she creeps cautiously through the thick roots. Not yet daring to expose herself with the tinkling of her wings. The figure separates the porcelain from her mouth, relays without much prompting, and repeats the whole process. More owls land on the branches, more songs hoot and more white eyes glow. The atmosphere is icy, and the moonlight pours through the treetops. The wind blows them away, tearing away a vast array of blue and green tones. Like the calm sea in a dream world, with nocturnal birds swarming and little animals digging up the earth for insects and fallen fruit.

However, Flora knows that the forest is wilted.

The vegetation floods her brain with cries of pain and cries out with the memories of sweltering heat and hellish flames devouring everything in their path. The nature fairy also remembers that night. The smoke intoxicating her lungs, knotting them, scratching them. Pupils tearing irises of a corrupt yellow and adorning a maddened look. Without realizing it, Flora strokes the wrinkled skin on her arm. She preferred not to regenerate that part of her anatomy, preferring to keep the remains of that burn. What it meant at the time and what it still means; the story behind it; all the messes that led to it, were a cold blow of reality towards the life she had chosen. And she cannot afford to forget it. She sighs for courage. The young sorceress who waits for her among the charred Elendari, drinking a lilac tea, and sketching under her hood, a catlike smile, is one of the most important reasons why she cannot forget the teachings left to her that fateful day.

The young woman does not seem to be aware of her presence, so Flora takes the opportunity to scatter seeds on the ground. The closer she gets, the more the owls' breasts seem to fill up. Their beaks open and close, clicking. _Tick tock, tick tock._ The empty eye-sockets reflect the dead light and their feathers become ethereal. Suddenly, shadows zigzag and become entangled in her limbs. They abrade her skin as if made of coarse rope, leaving a slight stinging behind. By inertia, her legs lengthen to take another step but the tentacles pull her in the opposite direction. Flora knows that she must have foreseen this, that she has fallen into her trap. She has already exposed herself, she has mistrusted too little, she can no longer turn back. At her bewilderment, the sorceress throws a tickling giggle.

―Oh, my sweet Flora, didn't the woods warn you of my presence?

Her voice is lazy and warm, but it doesn't reach her from the front, where the smiling figure is supposed to wait. Rather, it is a whisper at the back of her neck. Her heart races and she has goosebumps.

The lush foliage, the elegant owls, the barefoot girl on the branches. Everything melts in a revolting black ink, like hot wax. That sticky sound also splashes behind her, warning her that she is alone in the clearing. In that ashy, abandoned clearing.

The Na'had's grip is still weak, so Flora deduces that the sorceress must be far away. Perhaps, still bordering on her maximum range. The nature fairy stands at full height and takes a deep breath. It's not as if the tortured Elendari will give her much more information, and in fact, the nearest vegetation is almost beyond the reach of her own magic. But an incipient plan begins to cook inside his head.

The massive Arekkis dominates the firmament with excellent indifference. The studded stars pale before the overwhelming brightness of the moon's face. It shines so brightly that the night has become day. A pale and ghostly day, drawn with blinding whites, faint greys, and brushstrokes of timid black. Its marbled light descends languidly through the windows, accompanying the sorceress's walk, like a cannon in a theater. Before her eyes, the young woman appears bathed in a spectral halo, and that makes her smile in her inner self.

Darcy advances through the corridor without looking at anything but her hands evaporating the shadows. Darkness is sucked by her extended fingers with a cadenced hiss. The sorceress knows that the magic she will get from this exercise will be derisory, but she does not care. There is nothing in the dimension that delights her more than vanity implied in knowing how to be powerful.

She has always been hypnotized by contemplating the darkness dancing at the sound of her orders. It relaxes her, in a way, to remember that she is the heir of a demigoddess. Especially at moments like this: when she cannot afford the least mistake; when her calculations have to be millimetric; when she who waits for her in the forest is a prodigious opponent.

The heels of her boots crush the ground with every stride. Showing off the weight of the armor. Ah, the armor. Of overloaded and disturbing elegance wherever you look at it. Made up of a ladder of superimposed plates of fireproof asterlite. If you got close enough, you would hear the agonizing screech of a thousand unleashed nightmares, pulsing under the violet surface. The mental image that this imperceptible murmur evokes in Darcy is that of polluted souls trying to escape from hell. The goddesses will know if it is because the texture of the alloy is like a river of lava, or because the young woman has already acquired the madness of her predecessor.

Upon arriving at the door that marks the end of the corridor, the zaltori sorceress gives herself a second to soak up the moonbeams, make sure to guard her memory with the maps, and then sneak through the trees.

The first day she arrived at Magix, Darcy remembers being fascinated and intimidated in equal parts by Arekkis. Her craters commanded respect and she was just a little girl running around in front of her mother. Years later, and after a few expeditions to the desolate Domes of the snowy moon, the sorceress would understand that she was born to worship Arekkis and the secrets she hid.

The most valuable of these secrets, Darcy wears with pride, satisfied as a child who has obtained a longed-for toy. Displayed in yellowish pages and having as a showcase, very old tunnels. It was finally obtained after months of straight and patient obstinacy.

The corrupted armor -or sacred, depending on who you ask- does not fit her spiky figure and, as the zaltori runs along the path, the birds flee because of the noise she makes at every step. It matters little to her, concentrated as she is, to weave an illusion in a distant clearing. The threads of arcane energy make the marks on her arms and face play, pulling her skin as if they were moving her closer. Her target is far away, but the incinerated clearing to which her magic points is engraved in Darcy's memory. She focuses on the anguish she felt back then and pushes away all other emotions. The magic bubbles up from her body and it does not take her long to mold the burnt branches she knows so well. However, the witch is aware that her trick is incomplete.

The time she's been waiting for, Flora has been projecting her own magic around. Oscillating her arcane vibrations and trying to tune in to the vibrations emitted by the distant vegetation. Sweat licks the back of her neck and forehead, her features are furrowed and the fairy finds it difficult to deal with the fear. Flora can hardly hear the muffled rumor of the plants. But they are no more than weak laments in the middle of a sea of buzzing.

They are restless, and the linphei fairy, almost defenseless. She pushes her energy even harder on the few branches within her reach. Ignoring those that are dead and crumbling. As if she were swimming in a thick and viscous liquid. She takes longer strokes and an itchy skull warns her to stop. More strokes, her hands stretch out, her throat growls.

The tips of his fingers caress the wavy skeins. At first, all the threads are identical: viscous and fluctuating like seaweed. However, the linphei fairy knows how to search among them with expertise. The silk of the flowers is smooth and perfumed; the moss is a breath of fresh air and tastes like the pure wind of the mountains; the lichens are sweeter and more discreet, like small pieces of batiste. But the Elendari are unmistakable. Their fabric is like fractals: mesmerizing and consistent, but complex and full of life. They smell of dry leaves and have an exquisite touch.

She holds them tightly and begs them to protect her. The tree-mothers respond to him, tearing off their old barks. The world, suddenly, is wrapped in a dense mantle that cushions the sounds and smells. Only she and the mischievous threads of nature exist. Specks of dust are expelled and the roots begin to snake. Like old women wrapping their granddaughters in a winter night, their branches creak and envelop her. Crack crack crack. They travel through the air with obstinacy and little speed, twisting their edges from time to time and rearranging their structures. They bring to mind those rusty and oil-less machines that have not moved for years.

Just as the sap flows between the hidden phloems, the magic of Flora's body pours out. It is warm and intoxicating, but the teenager knows that it is a bad idea to let herself be seduced by that sensation. The moonlight stops piercing her eyelids as the wooden dome hovers over her. Everything smells of dry bark and there is a damp aftertaste in the air.

In an instant, nature's eyes become your own and your perception expands for miles around. Veiled by a thick curtain of honey, the image of a certain young enchantress is built inside her head. It is not light that she sees, but the impact of the boots on the roots, the shadows frightening the sprouts and the rusty leaves raining down on Darcy.

However, wrapped in the branches, she knows that the thick shadows have more power there. Flora clings to the idea that Darcy is not the type to get her hands dirty, that all this is a necessary risk. She grinds her teeth before forcing herself to inhale and exhale again. She picks up her emotions and lets herself be sheltered by the Elendari mothers.

Darcy sighs. The wail of nocturnal birds and the murmur of life in the forest are non-existent in this dead zone. So the silence weighs on both the fairy and the sorceress when the latter makes her appearance. She is panting heavily and a dull murmur roars in her temples. She leans on a burnt tree to recompose herself, still bordering the clearing, her eyes scrutinizing and memorizing. She thunders her neck without losing sight of the bundle of cracked trunks.

Still tied by the Na'had, Flora is suspicious when she hears, behind her, the cracking of the twigs as they break.

Darcy's heart is pounding, furious, and adrenaline rushes through her blood. A light breeze blows the ashes off the floor, stinking up her nose with a rancid smell. Her muscles tighten, her lungs hold their breath and both girls are ready to release their tricks.

She does not have time to rejoice in wrenching Flora, when roots snake under the earth, pushing away the humus as they rise to capture the sorceress' limbs. Blood pumping through the veins and shadows paralyzing them in response. Cut out under the abundant moonlight, the darkness holds the trees like strings to a puppet.

Darcy has raised her hands as if pushing on an invisible wall, but she is losing momentum and the rumbling in her brain intensifies. The illusion has cost too much magic, so she stops feeding the Na'had and concentrates on the branches.

Flora feels the slimy darkness melt away on her skin, like those owls and the hooded one. She doesn't trust. She opens a gap in the shell and pushes herself with her legs, her wings unfolding in all their splendor. One instant to stretch the seized flesh and it falls down to mimic the Elendari.

With methodical precision, Flora continues to press, at the same time that she merges more with the mother trees. Darcy retracts her shadow tentacles and the darkness dances around her, getting closer. A branch throws her against a withered trunk. Pieces of bark creak and pain scourges her back. The armor has absorbed most of the impact, but her neck has been scourged. A trickle of blood gushes from her cracked forehead and she hurries to get up.

In between splashes, her rival dives in and emerges from the flora as if it was a liquid illusion. Left, right, behind. The enchantress does not know where to direct her gaze. She begins to run towards the center of the clearing, channeling the shadows again. This time, attracting them as if she herself had become a black hole. Without pity or forgiveness, she bathes in them and weaves them around her like a spider's web.

A root sprouts before her, making her stumble. Damned armor, she is much less agile now. She dodges more branches and freezes others with their shadows long enough to flee.

From the mothers, bold flowers begin to be born, covering them like snowflakes, some dying drowned by the ashes. Bloody-purple colored, they pierce Darcy's retinas and make her shiver. Her breath is cut off for a second, before she wraps herself in elastic Na'had, grabs it to a lost branch, and catapults herself to the sky.

The sensation of weightlessness relaxes her for some moments, freezing the starry time before starting the vertiginous descent. In the blink of an eye, the shadows that Arekkis had forgotten are set against the interconnected soul of the Elendari.

She puts on the gas mask and later transmutes herself into the elegance of a diver. Her Marks light up with certain savagery and she uses her best efforts to break the branches that are lurking in her. She maneuvers in the air, dodging them almost effortlessly. The emotion bubbles in her chest and she draws a catlike smile.

Grinding darkness and tentacles of Herculean strength, little by little, the hands of the mother trees give way. A buzzing sound floods her brain, but Darcy ignores it. Soon, she is rewarded by a howl of pitiful pain. Behind the mask's visor, she focuses on an exhausted Flora. At last, she has come out of her plant hiding place.

The sorceress twists the branches, dreaming that, instead of wood, it is the body of the girl prodigy. And so her dreams are projected, with piercing spasms biting the nerves and the flesh of the fairy. Flora falls on her knees, her wings withered, tears on her brown cheekbones.

With her vision blurred and a ringing in her ears, the linphei fairy decides to weaken her connection with the matriarchs. It is as if a pincer were pulling the cruel claws out of her heart and she can almost laugh at the relief. However, the Elendari become stiffer and the Na'had eat the air, inch by inch.

In a furious rage, one of the matriarchs tears the mask from the sorceress' face. Her toasted skin is cracked by a red smile. Soon after, the barks burst, and the wood splinters like a hedgehog.

A whiplash runs down the spine of Flora, who, in sorrow, bids farewell to the Elendari loom. Instead, she drenches the ground and the dead trees with more lethal flowers. Just at the moment when the sorceress is caught by the dark tentacles and both gazes cross.

One second, two seconds. Nature against the abyss. Two untimely palpitations and the time that restrains and stumbles.

The world has been consumed by darkness and the shadows are white. They scratch the blackness and cut it out, extending like cracks in a broken stained-glass window.

Flora's eardrums are covered by only one noise, only one scream that pierces them ceaselessly: Bloom's voice. Observe her restless silhouette painted on the floor, running without getting anywhere. Flying. Crying in desperation.

Her heart races in her chest, while the fairy tries to run towards her girlfriend. But her limbs feel sticky and the muscles refuse to obey.

A deafening flash pierces her retinas and pushes her back. A migraine squeezes her brain, but she starts again. Hands, arms, legs. Bloom writhes in pain. Another flash swallows the blackness for a few moments. Again. Hands, arms, legs. Flora crawls, fighting for every inch. Bloom screams. An ominous pressure hovers over both. Out of the corner of her eye, Flora spots the floating Water Stars. She has to stop them. She has to reach her. She has to...

In the blink of an eye, her own shadow is spilling over, diluting her figure and sliding across the floor. Little by little, drop by drop, leaving a pale trail behind. Like mascara streaked by tears.

And in an instant, white merges with black to give rise to a vomiting gray. But the sounds do not stop. And her heartbeats, but she does not know where.

Behind the tulle curtains of the Oniric Limbo, some petals are getting excited, still somewhat lethargic; refusing, however, to forget their task. The corolla that holds them has contracted and almost suffocated due to the desperation of its weaver, but after receiving the order, it has not stopped. Incubating pistils and sprouting stamens. The leaves are stained with purple blood and seductive pollen is expelled into the environment.

It walks through the nostrils of the abstracted zaltori sorceress, whose mind has been blown into a calculated nightmare. It lands on the wrinkles of her furrowed eyebrows while it intoxicates her veins and numbs her mind.

The clearing is a picture of charred wood, absent foliage, and patches of wild lilac life. Beyond it is a lush, humid forest. Always a penitent guardian, it surrounds a vast campus, where a colorful, agitated and grumbling exchange of colorful magic awaits. One of them is ancestral. She is resentful and, spurred on by a redhead, implodes in the distance.

It echoes in the nightmare and destroys it. She caresses the petals before she strips them. It resounds in the skin and restarts the time for Flora. Who feels as if an eternity has passed since she fell into the trap. Her ears are ringing and the sticky lead seems to have existed for an eternity. But now it is waving as if someone had disturbed it.

She stands there, staring at the drugged-out Darcy who is still trying to process what happened. In her mind, a single thought flutters: "Bloom".


	4. 【2】 Relics from a Betrayal

**【** _Enclosed in coffers of ice and gems, lies the essence of a goddess nobody remembers. Betrayed by her sisters and condemned to eternal exile_ **】**

* * *

Two fairies fight in unison, twinned, synchronized, communicating in a language of both gestures and sights only they can understand.

The mouthpiece on her lips, fingers dancing on the holes and suspended by her wings, Musa has devoted to the hypnotizing melody that flows from her instrument. The notes are captious, they become entangled and detached from the air, braiding filaments of magic in its purest state.

The fire dances in Bloom's fists while, quietly, she reinforces the magic of her best friend with the most ethereal fraction of the Flame of Life.

They've managed to get to this point together; trust seeks to bubble up between their ribs, but it's too early to chant victory.

—Ah, the relics of a forgotten goddess —warns Valtor, impressed—. But if you use them against me, heiress, you will die too.

The dark bearer lies against the wall, smiling tightly as he tries to concentrate magic. An entanglement of arcane threads wraps him, like a fly caught in spider silk. His eyes are fixed on Bloom, Domino's last daughter, as he grinds his teeth. Under his scowl, a deck of schemes is cooked up to get him out of trouble.

Her captor, the fairy who accompanies the heiress, shares a similar expression.

A twitch takes over Bloom's lip. The atmosphere feels like a dense and suffocating liquid. She gasps still, with the pincers of fear squeezing her heart. She rubs her injured arm and tightens her eyelids. She is all shivering. She swallows hard.

—And you with me, damned demon —mumbles her.

Her heartbeat is frantic and cold sweat runs down her back.

But she does it. She lets warm energy envelop her like an orange mantle. Gradually, the shape of an igneous dragon is spun around her body.

She opens her eyes, shimmering all over with power.

The Water Stars are illuminated with a bluish tone that outlines the shadows of the place. They begin to spin and connect with magical links. In less than a second, a shock wave explodes in the hallway. The cracking of the glass and the cracking wall makes a sinister echo. For a moment, the sound seems to have disappeared.  
The ethereal strings that held the dark bearer disintegrate like sand carried by the wind. At the same time, their creator, Musa, is driven backward. The snap leaves her in pain, hammering her brain. Ears ringing and dust floating. She thunders her neck before wiping the trickle of blood from her mouth. She leans heavily on the wall, but the structure is about to give way. She contemplates the destruction. A hole has shattered the window, the nearby doors are loose from their hinges and a crater fills the wall. Valtor lies on the ground, like a broken puppet, but he is still alive. The girl doesn't know it, but the wizard has used a last-minute shield to protect himself.

Musa recovers her hearing and understands that her friends are still fighting the Trix, but everything is still so muffled. She blinks a few times and sets out to walk. The ground is made of jelly under her feet, wobbling with every step. Finally, she reaches the edge of the opening. Bloom is lying a few meters away, near splintered trees and surrounded by blood and more cracks zigzagging on the ground. The birds have flown away, frightened, but crows have remained to watch with suspicion. There is a debate about whether to finish off Valtor or go with her. She shakes her head vigorously, why the hell is she hesitating?

The Enchantix has vanished from her friend as if her cells had exhaled their last breath of life. On her side, and thanks to an undecided fortune, Musa remains in her fairy form and her thin wings stay fixed on her punished back.

When she sees it, she notices a deep and irregular cut, furrowing her abdomen; the same cut that now crosses Valtor's chest. She has her eyes wide open. Chills run through her body, but they are not from fear this time. Black crows caw, in their red eyes almost shines a kind of understanding.

An intense flash blinds them for a few throbbing moments. A body, that of Darcy's most chaotic sister, hits a column. The sound of bones breaking is unmistakable.

—Bloom!

Stella lands next to them, her breath is heavy and she leans on her scepter.

—Musa! What happened? —asks the solari girl— Tell me! —she shakes her.

—She... the stars... —Musa articulates in a low voice.

No more words are needed.

—Where is he? —Bloom tilts, at last.

She is dusty and both her forehead and her clothes are stained with red.

Musa puts a finger on her lips.

—Don't waste your energy, we'll take care of him.

The domini girl makes a superhuman effort to turn her neck and look into her eyes.

—Take me to him —she asks, dragging her voice.

Musa denies vehemently.

Stella makes the motion of taking out her little vial of fairy dust but desists when she notices the little arcane energy that she has left. Instead, she buries her fingers in her _swigen_ and extracts a roll of bandages. They contrast their bleached whiteness against the dirt of the battlefield and the dusty, sweaty, and desperate faces of the three fairies. She hands them over to Musa.

—My healing powers... they will fix it —exhales heavily—. But, my parents... what hap... —she passes saliva over her dry throat— he knows.

Musa tries to remember what was the exact amount of pressure to apply to wounds like that. She has bandaged her friends before, but it is Flora who usually takes care of these matters.

She fails numerous times, with the pressure and discomfort playing tricks on her. Inhale, exhale, don't get frustrated, she says to herself.

More flashes adorn the sky, looking like fireworks followed by pain and anger. Pyrotechnics of war and confusion. Wild moans and groans resound equally. In the forest, Flora is trapped in an illusion caused by Darcy, suffering visions of Bloom that are not far from reality. Above the blue tiles of Alfea, there is Tecna, lying, and being utterly drained. A raven is perched next to her. Soon, more arrive. Heaven knows how Layla manages to get the upper hand on Darcy's narcissistic older sister. Ice versus water. The fight is hard.

—We'll bring him to you —Stella says, frowning—, and don't you dare to move! —she threatens.

The solari raises her scepter and, with the light tearing the air, the man appears before them. The girl falls on her knees and passes a hand over her forehead. She has used this trick a lot in order to win.

The dark bearer stirs in place and speaks to the air. He does not even conjure up his Fire; he knows that this will be a fruitless effort.

—I know where your parents are. They are alive. Let me live and I will lead you to them —he says, breathing heavily.

Bloom tries to approach him.

—Tell me, now.

—He's manipulating you, don't you realize? -Musa warns her.

The redhead rises from the ground, her muscles shaking from the effort. Musa holds her by the waist, preventing her from falling. She holds Valtor by the lapels of that old-fashioned suit.

—Daphne, she is your mother —the wizard lies, but then he lets silence rule.

He smiles treacherously. Bloom doesn't have the strength to beat him.

—What other secrets has this nymph kept from you? —barks him between coughs—If you kill me, you'll never know how to bring them back to life —he presses.

Black dots cloud Bloom's view. Ravens prowl close, very close. But she feels her heart is racing and her lungs are expelling more air than they should. In the distance, Darcy lets herself go and hides in the shadows.

—Tell me —she demands in an attempt of a firm voice.

—Let me go.

Flora lands beside them both and rushes to embrace Bloom and questions her with her eyes. She strokes her on the chin, but the redhead is oblivious to her presence.

Musa raises her eyebrows and grunts underneath. Her fists are clenched in her sides. She remembers Layla's blindness, Tecna's almost death back in the Omega dimension, Stella's father story. One after another, images of her friends wounded by that demon pierce her retinas. She won't allow it anymore.

—You're done —she spits out, raising her flute to cast that deadly spell that Siri warned her never to use.

And her mother. She saw her in the glass maze. As healthy as if she had never been ill, waiting for her from the other side of a portal. With her almost black eyes and that traditional dress, she wore during her performances. Her eyes are watering. She takes her mouthpiece to her lips.

—Don't do it —prays Bloom.

—You know everything he's done to us! It's his fault you're like this!

A hot rage begins to bubble up inside Musa. After so many lies, how could Bloom believe him?

—Let him go —she gasps.

The dark bearer holds back the urge to laugh.

Musa throws a sonic sphere at the already shattered ground. The crows leave. Darcy melts into the darkness and takes refuge behind a pillar.

The girl grunts and invades the redhead's personal space. By instinct, Flora protects the redhead with her body.

—What the heck is wrong with your brain?

Layla arrives. She's taken a while to help Galatea hold the haggard headmistress of Alfea.

Musa strolls back and forth, what was a winter breeze turns into a gale. Wings and hair flutter equally. Flora pulls Bloom away from Valtor, wrapping her arms around her even more.

—Are you going to let him manipulate you like this? Just let me finish this!

—Please.

—You know damn well he deserves death!

The teenage girl is frustratingly wiping her hair, almost tearing off a lock of it.

Darcy puts her palms together and focuses. An illusion surrounds Valtor and he disappears. Lysliss' heiress does the same with her sisters and falls on the column. She is sweating profusely.

That deception is enough to make Musa explode.

—I GAVE MY MOTHER UP FOR YA, BLOOM! So that we could find the stupid stars! And what did you do?! Letting him go! But you had him there! And you let him go! My mother...! And you can't even sacrifice parents you never knew!

The music fairy blows and takes her hands to her head.

—I... —Bloom tries to speak, but her vision is blurred and her body no longer responds.

—Musa, calm down —says Stella, gesturing peace with her hands—. We can find a solution and, and, well you know, with magic everything is possible, right?

—Everything but bringing back the dead! —spits the music fairy.

Stella scratches her neck. Bloom reaches out in spasms to hold her best friend's hand. Her eyes no longer focus on anything.

—Forgive me.

And she lays her head on Flora's shoulders, closing her eyelids. Now, the one who looks like a broken doll is her.

—She is not breathing! —panicks Flora.

Stella leans on the redhead's chest, her heart in a fist. The movement is slow, but it exists.

—Of course she's breathing!

The relief hits them all.

—Help me carry her to the infirmary.

—I'm going —Layla offers.

Musa screams.

—And now don't you dare to die! Did you hear me, you reckless squirrel?


	5. 【3】 Disharmonious Memories

**【** _I remember her endowing both the sound and the cosmic dust with gorgeous, graceful, harmonic forms. Creating music, creating magic._ **】**

* * *

The sun sets through the windows of the infirmary. The shadows are long and sharp. The light is dim and gradually loses its warmth. The bedsteads remain spotless, except for two. The first is inhabited by a fairy whose face is wrinkled and whose wise and tired eyes are surrounded by wrinkles. She sleeps with calm breaths, in an exhausted and defeated sleep.  
The one who lodges in the second, on the other hand, is a young fairy, with metallic magenta hair and the pale skin of one who hates to expose herself to the sun. Her head is cocked to one side on the mattress, her breathing ragged, her eyelids restless, her mind shuffling through the possibilities that Bloom will stabilize in the next second rather than the next hour. She exhales a pitiful attempt at a jaded sigh, while ignoring the stings of worry and dissatisfaction. Some Guardian she is, huh?  
At her side, Layla waits anxiously, watching over her, waiting for news. She is a woman of action and cannot bear the helplessness. She stands, sits, then mercilessly squeezes an unfortunate pillow. Moments later, she repeats the cycle. The little plastic chair won't put up with his hyperactivity much longer. Flop flop of the squeezed plush. Tick-tock of the ticking clock. Layla is sure the damned clock is moving its hands slower on purpose.  
The pair of fairies keep each other company, in sulky silence and unspoken worries. From time to time, Layla asks her friend if she is comfortable. She insists so much, wanting to evade the feeling of uselessness, that Tecna has had enough for hours. She doesn't reproach her, however.  
In the waiting room of the infirmary, things are not quite different. Same frowns, same clenched fists. High-heeled sandals break the silence with clatter and pomp, revealing their owner's anxiety. To Stella, the seconds seem like hours and she can't stop herself from brushing her blonde locks. Tap tap tap tap from her eager footsteps.  
Flora, in turn, is curled in on herself, barely occupying the huge dark blue armchair. From here, she can smell nothing but death and anguish. She bites her fingernails with a touch of dread, in a vain attempt to chase away the remnants of the Nightmare. Forcing herself to forget the blood gushing from her girlfriend's body. A flower sliced by the stem and whose sap spills out. White, sticky, painful. Her mind plays tricks on her and she finds her knees trembling.  
Musa's attempts to enjoy the music coming out of the headphones she was wearing have long since died out. After the first half hour, she said in a gurgle that she was going out for air, yet she never returned. Now, there are drafts over her arms and rough trees like sandpaper on her fingertips. She has been walking the same path for hours. Thinking that there is only one more hour to go than the six the plump doctor predicted. One more, one more, they all repeated inside their heads.  
The tiny surgery room, with its many machines, tubes and beeps, plays with its door, pushing it away, distancing it from this existential plane. Seeming like a place so far away and from which no one will ever leave. For it has swallowed Ophelia and her medical team. It has gobbled up a reckless squirrel and doesn't seem to care. No, definitely that surgery room is jaded from the sweaty, bustling, hectic operations. Hence the mockery towards that quintet of naïve rookie fairies.  
The forest, in contrast, exudes morning dew and invites good cheer. Too bad Musa is struggling with her emotions. With mischievous and unsuspected steps, piano notes echo in the teenager's mind. When she finally gives herself a break and leans back against a warm rock, an orchestra of memories disconnect her from the present.  
Her veins are warmed by the sweet magic of a sidereal melody. She is improvising everything, choosing the notes as if she were gathering the ingredients for a dish whose recipe she wants to modify. She smiles softly; she is so relaxed. Music has always had the virtue of propelling her into a sea of fluffy clouds and swaying her like a feather. Descending through the air unhurried and unfettered. On her back, a pleasant purr. Eyes like nebulae and laughter at the surface of her skin.  
She shows off with flourishes, while funny, exaggerated grins are drawn on her face as the song becomes more hilarious. Musa plays a couple more comical chords, stretches them out melodramatically, rests her hands and rises to offer an overacted bow to her modest audience.

They are Bloom and Flora, back when they used to be too self-conscious to give each other affection, to give each other embarrassed, poorly disguised glances.  
However, they are clapping their hands until the palms complain and cheer her loudly. They are in Alfea's music room, reverberant and vaulted; crammed with instruments made of candid wood; enveloped in a gallery of hollow and powerful echoes; the walls of the huge room, papered with diagrams of the circle of fifths and diagrams as natural to Musa as they are incomprehensible to her friends; the gleaming platform; the relaxed and crackling atmosphere.  
\- You'll see! And I'm telling you, just as you see me, totally clueless about these things, that you're going to be a great artist. No, a huge and magnificent one! Everyone will know about you! They'll fall in love with your music, you'll have fangirls and fanboys..... You'll be even better than Jae Ming! -Bloom assures her earnestly, jumping up and down, hugging her like a koala bear.  
Muse welcomes her with open arms, laughing, blushing. She spins with her, emotion poorly contained after Siri's verdict on her previous performances.  
-No, don't go overboard, little squirrel. Jae Ming is THE master.  
-It doesn't matter, you'll surpass her.  
Flora wraps her arms around them both, but her arms can' t go all the way around them. She doesn't utter a word, but Musa senses that the magnitude of her friend's joy and pride is similar to Bloom's. She plants a kiss on both of them. To Bloom, a tender one on the cheek. To Muse, a motherly one on the forehead.  
The reminiscence fades, raking every drop of warmth as it leaves. Behind it, an unstable cocktail of self-doubting anger. Of an unsettling resentment that itches her skin, and a black cloud that bellows in confusion.  
She needs some time to herself, to sort out her ideas a bit. To take them with tweezers, to review the facts, to scrutinize them, to find peace.  
But Musa is not alone in the forest. A disheveled witch follows in her footsteps attentively. The wind whispers in an unintelligible language, rustling the leaves of the trees in a strange pattern. The birds accompany it in its concerto. Whistling and twittering. Flashes of color pop through the green foliage just as the chirping differentiates the music from the noise. Cherries and blackberries, birds and creatures. All carrying on with what is called life. But everything fades when you think of something besides.  
-Hello, Musa - the witch greets her.  
For a strange second, nature seems to stop to make room for that unwelcome guest. It was so fleeting, she must have imagined it. She shakes herself and snaps at her, while cautiously standing upright.  
-Stay away, Darcy, I'm not in the mood.  
-Believe it or not, I'm not here to make fun of you," she declares.  
The fairy snorts, almost mockingly.  
\- Do you think I was born yesterday?  
-I think you're a level-headed fairy, that's it. And that's why you'll accept the proposition I have in mind.  
Musa can't stand it any longer and bursts out laughing. She places her bandaged hand on a tree and wipes a tear from her eye.  
-For the Dragon, how I needed to laugh. And I hate to admit it when it comes to you, but what a fine joke.  
Darcy folds her arms, feigning annoyance.  
-So, you don't want to destroy Valtor? -she inquires.  
-Come on, why exactly would you," she demands and points at her, "want to get rid of him? Aren't you both on the same side?  
-Because I'm sick of him," she shrugs, "he's a downright tiresome guy when he puts his mind to it.  
-Aha.  
-Tell me, don't you get tired of hanging on someone else's wishes?  
Musa's smile is wiped off her face, but Darcy continues.  
-I mean, it's very stressful not to have things your way. To be prevented from doing what you think is appropriate. It's all a hassle, don't you think?  
She straightens up.  
\- What are you implying?  
\- Me? Nothing," she plays innocent. I'm just sharing my feelings with you. Isn't that what you fairies usually do?  
Musa opens her mouth to say something, though she shuts it when nothing hurtful occurs to her.  
-Unless, of course, you do feel the same way I do," the young woman reasons reflectively. Do you indeed feel that way?  
The fairy stirs in her spot, with a name, Bloom, hovering uncomfortably over her skull.  
-I don't have to tell you anything, witch.  
-And won't do it, I just wanted to do business. After all, things work out better when you do them yourself.  
-Assuming I believe you, what do you want from me? Valtor is wounded, it would be easy for you to kill him," the teenager concludes.  
-Smart girl," Darcy compliments her. But if I just kill him, I wouldn't be able to get his spells.  
\- And what do you want his spells for? Why should I help you get them? -she accuses her, her mind working at full speed.  
-I don't have to tell you anything," she retorts. Although, if you would trust me, I could trust you.

«And why do you need precisely me?» the girl ponders.  
Musa suspects that Darcy is up to something big. She can't pass up the opportunity to find out her plans. She has always been the scummiest of the three sisters, and from her own experience, Musa knows how deadly she can be if her feet are not stopped. She shudders at the thought of those encounters against her in Darkar's castle.  
-Fine," she mumbles, "what do you want to know?  
Darcy circles around her, like a lioness stalking her prey.  
-Tell me, little fairy, what's bothering you?  
Muse raises an eyebrow, the question has caught her off guard. It's too plain, too innocuous. She can't help but be suspicious.  
-Bloom," she declares, "Bloom troubles me now.  
Darcy pauses for a moment.  
\- What about Bloom? -Her tone is almost nonchalant.  
-Well, she's in a coma now because of the stupid stars. She"-Musa tries not to let her voice break-"she could die.  
The heiress of Lysliss resumes her circling.  
-And...?  
\- What do you mean by "...and"?  
-You're not trusting me, Musa. If it were only that, you wouldn't be so obfuscated.  
She purses her lips and then huffs for the second time this hour. She decides it's best for everyone, Darcy won't tell her anything if she's not honest.  
-Look, I'm mad at her, okay? It's just, that little selfish girl," she mumbles.  
It's nothing Darcy doesn't already know, but she feigns interest. The conversation is already molding more to her liking.  
\- Why call her that? Didn't she use the Water Stars against Valtor to defeat him?  
-It's just that she let him go. And all because of...  
Muse stops herself, this was all nonsense. She decides she's had enough.  
\- For?  
\- For nothing! -she spits, ready to leave.  
Darcy turns her back to him, parsimoniously removing a glove and manipulating a shadow to caress Muse's face. It takes some - a lot - of effort, but she has always enjoyed theater and melodrama. She will rest later.  
-I could destroy the magical dimension if I wanted to, you know, with those spells and the power of my Ancestress. Valtor is just an experiment of Lysliss and her sisters.  
Musa folds her arms and leans against a tree. She averts her eyes and recceds.  
-Well, I just feel betrayed by Bloom because she's made all the effort we put into bringing the stupid Stars worthless! -she bubbles her voice, running over with chagrin and pain- The worst thing is that she still buys Valtor's lies in spite of all his lies, in spite of everything he's done to us.  
The bubbling anger has come back to haunt her.  
\- Are you satisfied now?  
Darcy wears a feline smile and nods slowly. But she gives no hint of it as she turns away.  
-Then finish him off yourself," she encourages her. Let's eliminate him together, little fairy.  
Musa closes her eyes violently. The decision is made.  
-Fine," she agrees reluctantly. But get this stupid shadow out of my body, I can't stand it," she exclaims.  
Darcy obliges, relieved to relax the tension in her grinding muscles. Then she gives herself a few seconds to relish this small victory. There is no turning back now.


End file.
